Of Poets, Prophets and Vagabonds

Words won't change the world. People change the world. And God, changes people.
Sometimes... He uses our words to do it.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Sanctuary in the CrosswalkA monastic heart in city shoesdaily paddles the upstream currentof concrete sidewalks, asphalt streets and noise.He navigates the eddies of the common folk,rougher waters of the streetstersand froth-boiled rapids of the good, clean churchies;Justin loves them all.With an infectious, well worn smilesprung from a grinning heart,he pushes a java which wakens the soul,waters dry hearts,makes you a friend;though something rattles beneath his skin,a discontent when viewing pain,enduring grace, and even, peace;it makes him itch.Unafraid to birth a ritual,bury a habit,follow a whisperhe simply shuffles through each minute,perhaps to trade it for an houror whatever time it takes to pull someone,be tugged himself up the rickety-wobble steps of mercy;this daily climb across Christ's bones,quietly along the dirty stairsto heaven.Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown

Entertaining EleganceIncognizant of shame,I watched as they carried offhis sopping scarlet, loose-wrapped bodydown the empty trail,away to where they planned to dressand store its heavy coldness;then cautiously abandon Him whohad left them in their brittle tears,swollen, socket-eyed incredulityas He bled out the breath within their lungs.Incognizant of shame,I starkly stood as statue asthe curious, the strangers,and sadistic voyeurs whoknew none of these three outlaws on whomjustice dined that day,this straggling crowd of gawkers whostrolled back to the town to thinkabout the evening meal.Incognizant of shame,I stared as soldiers, guards, officialsplied their trade, followed duty's protocolto gather tools, clear the hill,sign off for unmarked burialsof two more thugs in Potter's Field,trying hard to let routinereplace their thoughts of blackened sun,shaking earth and sweaty panicof the recent hour.Incognizant of shame,I slowly walked into, against and throughthe downward flow of last departing souls;I, drawn toward the center oneof those now empty, sprawled,abandoned and uprooted timber crossbeamsleft as red-slick, stinking discard in the dirtfor nighttime creatures to discover,lick the scent before it dried,competing with a motley crowd ofwinged and furry silhouetteswho would tonight come hunched and crawlingthere beneath a hollow moon.Incognizant of shame,my knees collapsed in drying mudof body fluids, waste and gall,with blurry eyes I stared into the residueof what had happened there;strained to sort the magic from the sacred,sift the truth from dogma,find God's face in all of thisand reaching outI gripped that crude, misshapened,blood-oiled peg of ironand wailed.Copyright (c) 2009 Gary Brown

Donut Church CafeThe Donut Church Cafe absorbs its patrons,infuses them with a shopping center faithinessin God and coffee and convenience.The corner booth corrals its transient flockswho squeeze in past each other's thoughtsand the disheveled newsprint,this morning's headlined scriptures;they hope to talk enough to change the world,note their blogs, call it a day.The walkerspace across the storefront's windows,watch the weather for no reason,panhandle schemes for spare change truthfrom passing strangers,at least enough to buy a burger,as if they would really eat it.And from the street scan parking lotfor clues of who may be inside,cast our imagined dice at thosewe presume make their homeamong this riff-raff clergy whosell each other designer brandsof their recycled dogmassalvaged from the discard binsof actual, thinking souls.My head wags at wasted livesas these clueless activists,blind archeologists without credentialswho dig inside their gourmet brewsfor insight;I watch them with chagrinand hate myself.Copyright (c) 2008 Gary Brown

An Unremarkable CrimeYesterday I did it;sold the hat I swiped from Jesus,I took it and I sold it right on eBay.Quicker than I care to say,I stole and I sold it.I stole... I think I stole it.I grabbed it when I somehow thoughtHe would not see.Not wondering why the Son of Godwould need a hat, want a hat, have a hat,I, I... simply took it.I sold it there on eBay.I watched the bidding without thinkingabout selling anything at all;I watched it, unattached;spectator to this feeding frenzy,gobbling up God's stuff.As one who spent the earth to buy a drink,traded truth without a license,yesterday I stole this hat and sold it,at an auction.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Alex lost himself down in the basement,beneath the yellow-fuzzy glow of dusty bulbs,his workbench piled with crumpled boxes,opened boxes, labeled boxesof pieces of broken radios.Ray-dee-ohs.Fascination, a wrinkled curiosityfor years infected his imaginingsabout the source of their sounds, invisible signals,and its reception within these plastic shells,psychedelic wires,the fabricated flesh of rectangular, manufactured bodies.Secretly, perhaps without conscious thought,secretly, he also hoped to excavate, examine,even understand the cryptic mystery,the coded strategy behind God's voice;its transmissionto the antennaed ears and hearts of man.

Monday, September 1, 2008

Two Eyes Waiting

That halfangry, allwanting, ballcapped face,bench seated at the busless stop;homelessand his homeless home of dirty duffleand black plastic bagssecured his momentary residencethere beneath the downtown shadeof a concrete encircled oak.Turning to look again,only the silhouette of his vacancy remained.Somehow, between two adjoining nows,somehow, baggage burdened, loaded, ladened,gracefully he had slipped from view,had vaporlike displaced himselfto visit where such angels, found,are entertained by unawares.

Friday, August 15, 2008

The Consummation of Tango and Redemption

Open-winged,descending through that silent hole of stillest night,God entangled him in graceand considerately initiated a choreography of passion.Resigning his affiliation,Stefan set fire to his inventory,flung baptismal waters at the flameand celebrated with a festive, inspirational requiem.

No one monitors the bodycount littering the dance floor;such shells of shed acquaintances,propensities and associated demonettesprovide incense within the fragrant pyres of devotion.

It echoes in the looks of those from sidewalk stands,occupational cubicles, cushioned seats of movie houses,and even those who sit on Sunday mornings singing:"Show us the Jesus trick."Tiny crosses by the handfuls tossed to waiting crowds,a web site etched upon each one solicits Visa dollars,offers to sell secret passportsto The Kingdom.

As well, even the less-than-charlatansin hopes to earn their collars entertain that challenge,dance for strangers and parishioners;unaware they've spilt their Bibles.

Whether a most sincere plea or just bidding on Barabas,it does disclose an innocent malnourishmentof those who secretly do suspectthey may need what they do not want.

I sometimes wish... God would just dispatch his justice,stop the noise, stack up all the bodies, sort out souls.If He must squeeze time and earth through sieve,sifting scent of Lucifer from spent eternal dust...why not now?Prolonging wound and injury suffered by the human flaw,man's ignorance prompts us speak aloud.Graced not to find the questions whichare proper known and asked,I rant, without the shame which I should own.If God would but shut me upand every human tongue which wags;rip flesh from well worn world by spirit law;as cord wood, pile humanity, thenweigh the lot in balance hung on Armageddon's porch,before the throne.I do not know nor ever will why He tarries midst the filthwe dine and serve each other, feigning love.No better than another onewhom is, has passed or yet to come,I simply yearn for end of grace abused.But God, in his sagacious wit,extends his hand to spill himselfon angry infants shouting at His ear.

In cafes, Kelly pays his bill before he eatsjust in case the rapture snags him up awayand midst the riotous confusion,someone finds his unpaid check and blames it all on God.And so our over-thinking tilt toward analysis,diagramming truthto fit on titled books and business cardsmakes evidence against us,bears witness to our well-intentionednature to confound, confuse what is very simple.Opting to develop an astute defense for Godwith those who argue, do not get it,who cannot without Kelly's help enjoy the secret know,his life is spent on practicing, rehearsing linesand missing every doorbell ring,chance to dance or simply love without a net.

Being quite convinced he could not hide from God,gave rise to intrigue:the prospect of imagination;capitulation to a strange devotionwhich strips religion's threads,might terrorize the gurus of ecclesia.Considerations grew, became an immersion,a suffocation which tugs the soulout, through the heartand as delightful baggagedrags the mind along to play the straight man.Vincent accidentally broke the learning curve,lost himself free-falling through the Kingdom,landed in the playground of The Trinitywhere he forgot his learned theologyand vague yet adamant convictions.Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown

Jack has a gun.He preaches with it in his pocket;keeps it loaded, unexploded;Jack, and his gun.It's the kind of thing he always does,just after a war or reading of one, in case of one;he's sentimental like that.Being humored by scenarios he only imagines,keeps him prepared in a healthy way, because...Jack, has a gun.I remember when everyone,shocked at some news, recoiledand repeated their worries and fears to each other;Jack, only listened and sipped his ice teaand rocked in his chair on the porch;and oh, did I mention,Jack, has a gun.I thought it weren't his and perhaps, it wasn't,and perhaps there was more to its story,but Jack was determined to keep all its secretsbottled inside like the bullets which hidin the gun which he kept in his pocket.I know when he spoke of it no one else listened;he thought I just knew what he thought he had told me.Once, after thinking I'd heard it fall out,when once he fell soundly asleep in his chairand I thought that I heard it, fall out... on the floor,I thought that I'd see it;I saw it was actually an oddly shaped rock;smooth-like, all over, almost a bit shiny,and I saw that apparently,it wasn't still loaded.I wondered a lot about that after thatbut never once questioned the fact that I knewthe truth of the matterwas: Jack... has a gun.He preaches with it in his pocket.He's given clues on how to use it,as now I know, he often does.Copyright (c) 2005 Gary Brown

Monday, August 11, 2008

Synopsis

Even infants tread and splash withinthe hallowed shallows;no thoughts, preoccupation with the deeper things;all as it should be forchildren of the Kingdom.But rather we as Henry Bemis,wake and rub our blurried eyesto stare without absorption across all the books,knowledge we desire to decorate ourselvesand mash the landscape.From the passing Greyhound's window,Jesus watched before his dozing offto squeal of babe,the poor man's breath,fears within the silent teen seated in back,and the subtly numbing,muffled humming,of the tires.Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown

Before you read anything posted here...

Thank you for visiting. I hope something found here might somehow thoughtfully provoke or stimulate your own creative or spiritual journey. Unlike my other sites or online volumes of work, this space is not theme oriented but might best be thought of as "RoadWork"; poetry proclaimed from the shoulder of endless highways, spoken softly along mountain trails and preached in downtown alleys. Found here will be an ecclectic compilation of some newer, unclassified works, experimental pieces and unpublished poetry I have performed publicly (so that requesting listeners might find it).

Since poetry was originally meant to be heard, not read, I usually write for the ear, not the eye, even on the printed page. Most of my work seeks to convey complete stories or messages with multi-layered meanings in only a few sentences, perhaps 3-4. Its architecture is "intentional" by nature of the specific, methodical, measured attention paid to issues such as content, continuity and rhythm more than adherence to a sterile discipline.

Enough said. I hope you find this somewhat mysterious and cryptic method of storytelling rewarding or at least, entertaining. Your comments are always welcomed.

So... take your time. Poetry cannot be effectively consumed in mass quantities. Be patient. Read slow to comprehend more quickly. If a poem is good, the more you contemplate and play with it, the more meaning and interpretations it should methodically reveal.

And remember: Poetry is meant to be read aloud. Listen to it. Listen to yourself.

ARTWORK:The amazingly intriguing background image is the work of Coralia Pastrana-Brown. It is entitled, "Babyface".

Quotes...

“I understand commitment to be that the poet/artist is demanded to his depth to be burned with others when he sees them burning and not to stand on the other side of the bank absorbed in prayer.”al-Bayyati- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -"I like reality. It tastes like bread."Jean Anouilh